


and dreams

by dmdiane



Series: Hopes and dreams [2]
Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Beginnings, First Kiss, Getting Together, If You Squint - Freeform, M/M, Mycroft & Rosie, Sherlock Holmes/Molly Hooper/John Watson - Freeform, Texting
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-03-26
Updated: 2018-03-26
Packaged: 2019-04-08 12:43:11
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,672
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14105634
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/dmdiane/pseuds/dmdiane
Summary: This is what happened immediately after Hopes.





	and dreams

Mycroft stares at Chief Detective Inspector Gregory Lestrade’s retreating back. Watching the familiar stride, he feels like an untethered helium balloon at the park. Lestrade vanishes through a set of doors, taking the stench of a swamp with him, and Mycroft’s gaze falls to the phone in his hand. His hand wants to drop it, he’s surprised it’s not ticking. He unlocks the device and opens his text messages. He scrolls through the most recent exchange of messages. With Lestrade. Who was sitting right here. Words float past his consciousness, _pleasure, intimacy, dreams_.

Very occasionally during tense negotiations in another language, Mycroft experiences an emotion strong enough that the speaker’s words bounce off his comprehension. His mind, busily responding to some frustration or other, refuses to translate for a moment. This feels like that. There are the words. In print. Under Lestrade’s name. On his phone. Begging to have meaning attached to them while his brain stutters from emotion.

He closes his eyes and summons snapshot memories of Lestrade. He reaches for those of Lestrade looking directly at him. The twitch of that left brow. Half smile, mouth slightly open. The deepening smile and that dimple. A wide-eyed assessment. Try as he might he realizes he can’t recall seeing the inspector aiming those particular expressions at anyone else. Has he been so busy admiring the man that he’s missed the returned regard? He sucks in a breath.

He doesn’t really like texting. Yet, in this instance, something about texting has created a space that didn’t exist anywhere else.

The patter of soft soles on the tiles yanks his attention back. Molly Hooper, arms full of baby Watson and paraphernalia, walks with quiet determination and he rises. He’s about to greet them when John Watson steps through the ward doors.

“He’ll be fine, he’s just through here.” The doctor meets her in the opening to the waiting room. Rosamund’s face lights and she stretches out a hand to her father. In the same instant, Molly gets a whiff of whatever befell the three men earlier. Her nose wrinkles with distaste as she literally turns to move the baby from his reach. Rosie laughs.

“Oh, John, no. What?” Molly shakes her head with some added disgust. “Not until you’ve washed.” She ignores his momentary consternation and turns to Mycroft. “Hullo, Mycroft. Would you?” She extends Rosamund with the assurance that has Mycroft accepting the weight of the toddler. Molly puts the baby bag on a chair and manages, without touching him, to herd John back through the ward doors.

Mycroft grins at the child in his arms. “Hello, pigeon.”

Rosie sighs like a dowager sipping fine wine. “Mygov.” She pats both hands on his cheeks very softly. She presses her head to his chin and rubs.

“It’s lovely to see you, too.” He drops a kiss on her hair and takes a seat, settling the little girl in the curve of his arm. He has not seen her in nearly a week and takes a long moment to absorb the keen blue eyes.

“Red.” Rosie looks back at him, toothy grin widening. Tiny fingers pet his tie.

“Indeed.” He agrees. He strokes one curly blonde pigtail. “Ponytails.”

“Deed.” She agrees. “Two.”

“Very nice.” He leans back in the chair and crosses his legs under her. “I expect we will be some time, dear. Just you and me. Yes?”

“Yes.”

“Rosamund, the oddest thing has happened.” He confides. “Uncle Greg was here earlier.”

“Gegg.” She croons fondly.

“While he was here, we exchanged text messages of all things. I believe he may have soft feelings for me, pigeon. I’m not entirely sure how to respond.”

“Gegg, lovey.” Rosie nods sagely.

His mouth twitches. “Indeed.” He shifts her to face him more directly. “You know how much I love you. Yes?”

Rosie giggles. She spreads her hands as wide as she’s able. “Soooooo much.”

“Yes. I expect I need to let Greg know how I feel. It really is the most difficult of situations. You see, he is the kind of man who could be with anyone he wants. I am not remotely the kind of person I would see him with. He could be with someone warm and funny. Someone beautiful.”

“Bootiful Wosie.” She hums. “Bootiful Mygov.” She rubs a small hand under his lapel and leans over to headbutt his collarbone.

“Thank you, darling.” He wraps her in a snuggle, she looks up, beaming at him. An embrace he’s come to depend on mightily. He returns her smile.

Molly emerges and sinks into the next chair. “Well, they’re stitching Sherlock up. John’s showering.” She pauses and really looks at them. “She adores you.” She brushes strands of flyaway hair from Rosie’s face. “Thank you for coming so quickly. I can get them home. Once John’s found some clean scrubs we’ll be set here.”

“Nonsense. Jeremy is outside with the car. We will see you all safely delivered back to Baker Street. Rosie and I are fine. Go. Take care of him.” Mycroft would far rather converse with Rosie, and they all know that Sherlock’s behavior is significantly improved when with Molly.

Molly gets up again and drops a kiss on Mycroft’s forehead. “The best big brother any of us could have.”

The three hours it takes to have Sherlock discharged and bundle the odd family from the A&E to Baker Street are a mixture of hurrying up to wait filled with idle chatter and strict instructions. A course of actions familiar to all of them. Truth be told, Sherlock is far less reckless than he’s ever been. It has taken the love of a good woman, a good man, and an infant to quell some of his more thoughtless bad habits.

Mycroft was initially wary of their persistent efforts to include him while they constructed their efficient family. Now, rarely a week passes that he doesn’t share a meal at Baker Street and Rosie stays with him on Saturday nights. Mycroft watches the quartet make their way into the household they share. He taps the window to let Jeremy know they can leave.

Finally alone again, he can take out his phone and reread. And, read again. A bubble of warmth rises in his chest. He places the cursor and types.

_\- Everyone is safely returned to Baker Street. I was privileged to spend some time with Rosamund. She advised me that you are lovely. I must agree. Allow me to add that yes, I do find seeing you a pleasure. I am especially fond of your left brow and your dimple as they are indications you are highly amused. I find the thought that a chance may have been missed between us intolerable. Honestly, I did not know there was such a chance and knowing there is I feel compelled to risk it. MH_

A whirlwind kicks up in his belly as he taps send.

~o~

Hair dripping down his neck, half toweled off, Greg stares at his phone. _Good god in heaven_ . He’s the one who started this. _Fuck sake._ How’s he supposed to answer? He buries his face in his towel and tries to assess the flock of seagulls he’s apparently swallowed whole soaring around in his chest. He drops the towel and picks up his phone.

_\- Coming from a man whose left brow speaks several languages, that’s a hell of a compliment. Does the risk extend to dinner with me? A date?_

Greg glances up at his reflection. He just asked Mycroft Holmes for a date, by text, while standing naked in his bathroom. Better, he supposes, than asking Sherlock to tell his brother he fancies him. How does this not get easier? The seagulls batter at his breastbone, threatening to heave up his dinner with their excitement. Steady on, mate. It dawns on him that he’s simply staring at the phone. He takes a bracing breath and puts it down.

In the bedroom, his pajama trousers beckon from the bed. Well, he’s certainly not going to sleep after that. Undecided, he tugs on boxers. The single chime of his text notification sounds from the bathroom counter. His throat closes. He can’t gather thoughts without clothing. He slides into jeans and scoops up the phone. He pulls a t-shirt over his head and allows himself to read.

 _\- That is acceptable_. _MH_

Greg laughs. - _Only acceptable, huh? I cook. Come to mine Friday night?_

The typing indicator bubbles under his words and he’s tempted to tap the call icon. But surely this bubbling is more bearable than silence. He watches the indicator pulse and pause and pulse. He has probably overstepped. Victorian courtship rules were doubtless useful in these situations. A thought he’s never had before and hopes to never have again. He taps on the edge of his phone, feeling foolish. Send another message? Wait? Christ.

He yanks on socks and laces up boots. He can’t know whether to retract the invitation or press on without being able to see the man. _Compelled to risk it._ He’ll have to catch a cab. The car smells of pond scum and that’s just not on.

~o~

“Greg?”

“I’m gonna be honest with you here, this is not how I saw this day going.” Greg begins, a smile curving his lips. His left hand dips into his pocket. The cab ride and the two layers of polite security personnel did absolutely nothing to assuage his nerves. He desperately wants not to do this on Mycroft’s doorstep. _Compelled to risk it._ He’d physically looked at Mycroft’s text several times while getting cleaned up. Those four words had nudged him to call a cab and come finish whatever conversation it is they have begun. “Invite me in?” There. He catches a flicker of the vulnerability he spied earlier.

“My apologies, of course. Please, do come in.” Mycroft opens door further and steps aside. Beautiful, bespoken, besuited, even these two steps have a balletic grace that stirs feelings of greed in Greg’s veins.

“Thanks.” Greg’s heart thumps over in his chest. He crosses the threshold and Mycroft closes the door quietly beside them. Mycroft’s gaze shutters. Greg needs to put up or go home. “At the hospital, when I texted you.” He swallows. “Should’ve said out loud. I fancy you to bits. Have for ages.”

A light blush touches Mycroft’s cheeks, his gray eyes are stormy and wide. Long practiced at reading the subtlest of gestures, Greg reckons this is the closest thing to an invitation there will ever be. _Compelled to risk it._ He takes a step well inside Mycroft’s personal space. When the man holds his ground, Greg’s grin flickers broad. He absorbs the last bit of space between them and tilts up, touching his mouth to Mycroft’s lips. Soft and pliant, Mycroft’s mouth opens and they both lean into the contact. Mycroft tastes of tea, sugar, scotch, and smoke, exactly like he ought. More perfectly than Greg dreamt. He hums, tongue stroking in, breath stolen. The kiss ends, unfinished, and neither man moves away. Greg can feel Mycroft’s smile curving.

“I was never gonna be able to sleep” Greg whispers.

“Nor I.” Mycroft’s fingers steal into Greg’s hand and weave between his, as tender as the kiss. “Perhaps you can stay for a drink?”

“Love to.”

“You seem entirely recovered from today’s mishap.” Mycroft looks him over before gesturing for Greg to follow down a dim hall.

“Yeah, well, I had to bin my shoes. I’ve no idea how I’ll clean my car. Should’ve called an ambulance and picked up the car later.” They emerge in a large kitchen, cozily lit by the chandelier over the breakfast nook. A teapot, cup, and saucer on the table amidst several file folders, a slim laptop, and three pens hint at an unbearably charming image of Mycroft working at home. The overhead lights come on and Greg turns to see Mycroft shrugging off his jacket.

“I fear Sherlock may not avoid an awful infection, though his constitution never ceases to surprise.” The suit coat comes to rest on a chair back and Mycroft begins rolling up his sleeves. It’s been three hours since they last saw each other in the hospital wait room. Who works at home in their waistcoat? When he’s not scaring the everliving fuck out of someone, Mycroft’s formality is adorable. Greg cannot fathom the contradiction. Whatever it is, it’s attractive.

Greg touches Mycroft’s cuff as he smooths. Mycroft startles at the contact. Greg hesitates, but lets fingertips linger on his forearm before speaking again. “I had enough Sherlock for one day, can we not talk about him again until tomorrow?”

“Of course.” Mycroft pulls very slightly away. “Habit.”

“Yeah, well, worrying about him is a bad habit we share, but I’m far more interested in you.” Greg returns his hand to a pocket to resist more touching. Mycroft’s forearms are muscled, with light red hair and inviting gold freckles on pale skin.

“There is tea. I have two Earl Greys and a lovely Assam. I also have a Yinzhen, if you prefer something lighter.” Mycroft gathers the teapot and cup from the table and glides to the counter. “There is also wine. I have a white Bordeaux open in the refrigerator. The scotch is another excellent choice.”

Greg knows enough about tea to know that’s what they’re talking about, but not enough to have any idea about specific differences. He knows enough about Mycroft to recognize nerves in the hospitality. As often as they’ve talked over the years, this feels entirely new. A little raw.

“Scotch sounds perfect.”

Mycroft produces two crystal tumblers and a bottle of Balvenie 30. Greg takes a seat across from where he guesses Mycroft sat earlier. Mycroft has left the files on the table and Greg tries to reckon how long it’s been that Mycroft has trusted him not to meddle. Years, now. He follows Mycroft’s movements as he pours them each two fingers of golden liquid before perching on the opposite seat, warming the scotch in his hands. The first sip is so smooth and bright that Greg closes his eyes.

They talk for a moment about ever ubiquitous paperwork and agree that if everything ever is truly online documentation would benefit. Greg compliments Mycroft’s ‘crucial meeting suit’ and Mycroft chuckles then grows pensive.

“I don’t understand you observing what I wear.” He admits.

“I’ve been interested in you for years. Of course, I know what you wear. Haven’t you ever had a crush on someone?” Greg sips his scotch. In the ensuing silence, he realizes that maybe Mycroft hasn’t. The answering stillness is unsettling. Greg watches Mycroft’s version of an information overload retreat. More subtle than either Sherlock or Eurus, it’s still a disconnect. He waits, and wonders if Mycroft has any idea how long these glitches last.

“I’ve admired from afar.” Mycroft contemplates. “I have a near photographic memory. So, yes, I can recall what people have worn. Just, why would…”  ... _someone admire me_? He looks away and gathers himself, his expression closing.

Greg hears the unfinished thought as clearly as if it were spoken. “Mycroft, I’ve had a crush on you since we met. If we do this, you and me, have a relationship, that won’t go away. It’ll grow and it’ll be serious.”

“That is more than acceptable.” When his eyes come back to Greg’s the gaze is warm and encompassing.

“Good. That’s good.” Greg reaches across the table and strokes the back of Mycroft’s hand. “I did not think we would get here, you know. I’m sorry about the texting, I don’t know what I was…”

“No,” Mycroft interrupts with a rare laugh. “It was perfect. I’m going to have it framed.”

Greg wants nothing more than to hear that laugh every day. He lifts his glass. “To risk.”

“To us.” Mycroft brings his glass to touch and the crystal rings softly.

Air catches at the back of Greg’s throat as life tilts on its axis into an entirely new orbit.


End file.
